Mother Knows Best
by Jayne Cobb09
Summary: Sometimes, the thing that mother knows best is taken a little too literally.


"**Mother Knows Best"**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Jack Ripner in any way or "Plush" by Stone Temple Pilots. Sob. I also do not own the lines from "Red Eye" that I use. **

**Summary: Sometimes, the thing mother knows best gets taken a little too literally.**

**A.N: I know someone else did a one shot about his childhood (and it was great, by the way!) but mine's a little different. I swear. **

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"_Is it Jack for short?" _

"_No. I haven't gone by Jack since I was ten years old." _

"_Last name's Ripner." _

"_Jack Ripner... Jack theee...oooohhhh."_

"_There you go." _

"_That wasn't very nice of your parents." _

"_That's what I told them. Before I killed them." - Red Eye_

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Jackson told them he loved them every night before he went to bed. But he never meant it. The only thing that went through his mind every day was:

"How _dare_ they! How could they name me such a horrible name! Nobody likes me because of it!"

He let images of their blood spattering on the walls run in front of his eyes every second of the day. He wondered how he could do it. He almost felt a compelling need to do it. His fingers twitched when he got near a knife and he couldn't understand.

Why did he feel this way? He wasn't sure he understood himself. His bones ached and he didn't sleep. His teachers called home to ask if everything was alright. 'Jackson was sleeping in class again, Mrs. Ripner.' Or 'Mr. Ripner, your son Jackson didn't participate once in class today.'

Jackson hated his peers. He hated his teachers. He hated his parents. His hate emitted an aura of danger that made his classmates leave him alone and his teachers refused to question his reasoning on some of his responses in class in fear that he would lash out. He'd never done it before but they could tell it was coming.

One day, he couldn't take it anymore. The constant teasing, being left out, the teachers afraid to correct him when he was obviously wrong. So he decided to take it out on the people who started it all.

He planned it all out over the course of a week. He would make it look like an accident. He would watch and make sure they saw him watching. He would make them know what pain he felt when they made fun of him.

So one night, while his parents were watching television in the livingroom, he snuck into the kitchen and went to the sink. He pulled a bottle of gasoline out from under the sink cabinet. He couldn't recall why his parents kept it there in his plain reach. He guessed they never dreamed he would do something like this. That he was even capable.

Jackson then poured gasoline on their toaster and all over the floor, letting a silent trail run into the livingroom, and pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He put a couple pieces of toast in the toaster and turned it on before striking the match. When the police came, they thought someone was toasting bread and it caught on fire. They thought the kid got out alive and the parents had no time.

He smiled and threw the match on the gasoline soaked toaster and scampered into the livingroom and stood right in front of the television.

"Is something the matter honey?" his mother asked with a wispy and sweet voice, her heavily mascaraed, blue eyes blinking rapidly.

"I hate my name! Do you know what they call me? Jack the Ripper!" he said calmly.

"Well, son. . ." his father tried to interject but his only son smiled wickedly and the TV illuminated his face in strange ways.

"I guess you were right mom. Sometimes, bad things do happen to good people. You know what they say, mother knows best!" he laughed and looked at the startled faces of his parents.

"Son I. . . "

"Honey, what's that smell?" his mother lifted her skinny, pale nose in the air. They turned to see a large fire begin to creep quickly into the livingroom. They looked at their son.

"What have you done, Jack?" his father whispered. Jackson smiled once more.

"My name's Jackson." He ran for the door and out of the house, locking the door behind him. During that week he took all the batteries out of the smoke detectors, took the line out of the phones, locked the doors and jammed the few windows in their house.

He watched as in a matter of seconds, it seemed, the house was engulfed in flames. He heard someone scream. The fire trucks sped down the street, but it was too late to save anyone. They were both dead.

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Now, Jackson sat in his cell and let that day run over again and again in his head. The smells, the sounds, the feel of the heat of the fire. . .

Jackson Ripner had killed his parents.

And he was only ten years old when he did it.

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"_And I feel, so much depends on the weather_

_So is it raining in your bedroom? _

_And I see, that these are the eyes of disarray_

_Would you even care?" - "Plush" by Stone Temple Pilots _


End file.
